


semi-splendid

by mellerbee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 NHL Off-Season, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boston Bruins, Gen, screw jeremy jacobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellerbee/pseuds/mellerbee
Summary: "I need to be a lot better...I've got some character things and things that I've done that clearly need some fixing." - Brad Marchand, 2018 break-up day"[he's] a player that, I can only think of 30 other teams that would love to have him, so there's a margin that you give him. But, I think he used up that margin." - Jeremy Jacobs, 2018 break-up day





	semi-splendid

**Author's Note:**

> title from the poem by tracy k. smith
> 
> can be read as ship, but I didn't have that in mind while writing
> 
> considered tagging as dom/sub undertones, but it’s not too important so I left it, but just know that yes, that is intentional
> 
> my reaction to the following article: https://www.nhl.com/bruins/news/for-marchand-offseason-will-be-time-for-reflection/c-298682020

Brad was at dinner when he got the call. 

 

He wasn’t even the one who heard his phone ring, it was on vibrate and he had tried his best to ignore where it had been burning a hole through his pocket all night. 

 

Katrina kicked him under the table, her smile verging towards concerned. “Your phone, babe,” she nodded down, supposed to signal nodding to where his pocket was, if the table wasn’t in the way. “You should take it.”

 

Brad nodded blankly, but didn’t make any move to grab his phone. It just kept ringing, persistent, while he stared at his plate. Taunting him. Across the table, the voice of reason told him “at least see who it is.”

 

He did, and instantly regretted it. 

 

_ Don Sweeney _ was what the called ID read, which had never once been a good sign. He switched his staring to the number burning it’s way through his mind. That, too, was taunting him. Somehow he managed to mutter “I should take this,” not sticking around for questions that would just end up uselessly winding him up. He didn’t bother grabbing his jacket as he made a beeline for the door, just picked up the call with numb fingers. 

 

It was a cool night for May, not unusual for the Boston waterfront, and not at all unbearable either. He was sweating no matter what. 

 

“I just got off the phone with Jacobs.” Sweeney didn’t bother with small talk, just cut right to the chase. Brad didn’t know if it was better this way, or if he would’ve preferred some kind of cushioning. 

 

He nodded in response, until he realized that couldn’t be heard over the phone. “And?” He forced out, his voice sounding tinny and far-away to his own ears. 

 

“He wants to trade you.” And there it was. He should’ve been expecting it, really. He’d had a good season, racked up over 30 goals, more than a few game-winners, wasn’t as dirty as some past years. But it hadn’t been  _ great _ , by any means. Not enough to make up for some of the other things he did. It never seemed to be enough. 

 

“To where?” He still sounded like he was underwater, and there was a fog over his mind that made it feel like he was drowning as well. Somewhere nearby a police siren sounded, and it was eerily fitting. His voice remained neutral, though he’d had plenty of practice with that. 

 

“He doesn’t know yet.” Was what Sweeney told him in return, like a final nail in his coffin. They wouldn’t be trading him for money, no, this wasn’t a business deal. They were trading him because they wanted to get rid of him, didn’t want to deal with the stain on their organization anymore. He had an idea or two why. 

 

Sweeney was silent for a while, and eventually Brad realized he was waiting for an answer from him. He didn’t give him one, didn’t really have one to give that wouldn’t lead to the floodgates opening and him ending up crying over the phone to his GM. That was pretty much a worst case scenario. 

 

“I don’t want it to happen, son.” Brad bristled at the use of the word  _ son _ , but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “But I don’t have the final say here.” 

 

There were a million things Brad could say right now. The first thought on his mind was to blurt out  _ this feels like 2013 all over again _ , but he squashed that thought. He considered saying something like  _ what about my family _ , or  _ who else knows _ , but he steeled his voice neutral again. At this point he was much too good at that. What he did say was “thank you for telling me.”

 

“Thank you for handling this as well as you did, Marchy.” His nickname sounded poisonous right now, mocking him for someone he had once been. On the other end of the line, he could hear Sweeney cough. “Have a good summer. Behave yourself, son.”

 

_ Behave yourself _ . The words seeped through his mind like an oil spill.  _ Behave yourself _ like a kid who didn’t know any better.  _ Behave yourself  _ like he wasn’t thirty years old, like he didn’t have a wife and kids, like he hadn’t been in the NHL for years on years. 

 

Then the line went completely dead, and the world came rushing back to him. The sounds of the city hit him like a wave, chattering on the sidewalk and cars rushing past managing to crumble the walls he had just forced himself to put up.

 

Sooner or later it hits him, shit, he’s on a date with his  _ wife _ , and he’s still outside the goddamn restaurant. So he makes his way, stumbling, to the door of the place, but someone catches him. Katrina has her hands tight on his biceps, holding him up, holding him steady. He gulps in air like he’s breathing for the very first time. She looks increasingly concerned, and his instinct is to make things better, but the words don’t come to mind. 

 

“Brad, what was the phone call about?” Her voice is steady, calm, and he latches on to every word. 

 

“They’re thinking about trading me.” He chokes out, voice distant and unfamiliar. It feels like he’s finalizing something, telling her, and it hurts like hell. Something’s over, and he knows it. He doesn’t want things to be over. 

 

She doesn’t try and reassure him, doesn’t tell him _ it won’t happen _ , because that’s the natural response. That would never help, just upset him even more because it  _ can _ happen. She just takes a deep breath and moves her hands down so that she’s holding his wrists instead. “I paid the check already,” is what she does say. “Let’s go home now.”

 

He nods, but she’s not waiting for an answer.

 

When they’re home, she sits back on the couch still in her dress and heels, and he curls up beside her. It’s a familiar scene, easy to fall back into it. He’s still got his dress shirt and slacks on, ill-fitting dress shoes still on his feet. He can’t bring himself to care, and little twisted part of his mind tells him that why would he deserve comfort to begin with?

 

Except, Katrina’s voice pulls him back to reality. “I’m gonna call Bergy, is that okay?” Brad jerks like someone stabbed him. It feels like ice water has been poured down his shirt, and it’s seeping into his veins. 

 

It’s not okay. Of course it’s not okay. He doesn’t want his perfect, untouchable linemate to have to come pick up his pieces once again. He’s thirty. He should be able to handle it. Except, of course, he can’t. 

 

He lets out a protest, a pitiful sound somewhere between a croak and a whimper. It haunts him right after it leaves his mouth. Katrina still has her hands knit in his hair, grounding him. He’s grateful, but they both know it’s not what he needs. She traces a line from his temple to his jaw, drawing out another scared whimper. She hums, a sign she’s made her decision. 

 

The phone ringing echoes louder in his head than it really is. When Patrice starts talking, the room is dead silent, enough that Brad can hear every word he says. 

 

“Hey, ‘Rina. How was date night?” Brad stiffens, and she runs her hand through his hair to soothe him. It works, but not by much. 

 

“It was good. The place David suggested, in Back Bay. Brad got a burger. Like usual.” She huffs a laugh, and Brad gasps dramatically in protest. 

 

Patrice must’ve noticed something off, because he was perfect, and always did. “Is - is Brad okay?” He asks, and it’s so full of honest concern it  _ hurts _ to hear. 

 

“That’s what I called about,” her hands are still petting through his hair, smoothing all the protesting thoughts away. Still, even with her efforts, he has to will himself silent. “Something - happened.” She tells Patrice carefully. “He’s doing better than at first, but I really think it’s something you’d be better at handling.”

 

“Where is he now?” For once Brad can’t read his voice at all. It’s slightly disconcerting.

 

“With me, on the couch,” she answers quickly. Brad instinctively curls in tighter, and she makes a small noise of worry that has Patrice talking again. 

 

“Tell him I’ll be right there, okay?” And now this line goes dead, too. Still in Katrina’s hold, he can’t help the broken noise than escapes him. She’s tugs him closer, if he wasn’t close enough already. Once again the room goes silent.

 

Patrice knocks thrice on the door of their apartment when he gets there, no matter how many times they’ve both told him it’s unnecessary. Brad’s current state must dissuade her from moving, so Katrina just hollers that  _ you can come right in _ . The volume is uncomfortable, to say the least, but it’s definitely the better of the two options. He doesn’t think he can handle being alone at the moment. 

 

Unlike some of their past apartments, the front door here opens into the kitchen. Which means Brad doesn’t get the warning of seeing Bergy until he’s only feet away from him. He doesn’t get the warning of how disheveled he looks, like he’s just gotten out of bed to be here. It’s ten o’clock, and sometimes he forgets how early Patrice likes to go to sleep. 

 

Katrina smiles softly in his direction, and he smiles back in a similar manner. Brad realizes for the first time that his cheeks are wet, that he must’ve been crying. It only strengthens his desire to run, to hide. This is not the situation he wants to be in. 

 

“Hey, kid.” Several people call Brad kid, something to do with his height, something to do with his attitude. Patrice says it as a way to get a rise out of him, protest something like ‘fuck you, you’re only two years older than me.’ If Brad was in his right mind, he would. He doesn’t.

 

He tries to respond, but what comes out instead is a choked sob that shocks him just as much as it does the others in the room. He hears his wife first, muttering _ it’s okay it’s okay _ while she twirls a strand of his hair. Patrice is spurred into action just as fast, and when Brad blinks he’s on his knees in front of him, a gentle hand resting on his arm. He says nothing, but it means about the same. Brad lets his eyes flutter shut, caught between the two of them. 

 

“I’ll leave you with him, alright?” Katrina makes a move to get up, but as the words sink in he snaps his head around to look her in the eye.

 

“No!” He can hear Patrice suck in a breath. “Please don’t leave?”

 

There’s a shuddering in the room, a suffocating moment of silence. “I’ll just be in the other room, okay? Besides, it’s just Bergy. Not scary.” Brad eases back at her words. She’s right. It’s not scary at all. 

 

She leaves, and for a second he’s completely alone, Patrice having to move back for her to get up. He tries to hide how terrified he really is, but Patrice, Saint Patrice, notices. Brad can see it in his eyes, beyond the worry and concern, that he has an idea what has happened. He says nothing yet, just asks “can I sit?” 

 

Brad nods through his tears, moving over so he can sit comfortably. Except he doesn’t take the newly made space, just sits at the end of the couch and tugs Brad’s legs so they’re rested across his lap. Patrice just shrugs, neutral, like  _ what’d you expect me to do _ ? Brad is eternally grateful. 

 

“So,” he starts, and Brad watches him second guess himself. A pause, a beat of time, and Brad starts to curl back in on himself. Patrice’s watchful gaze, seeing his every move, was usually nothing other than comforting. It felt mocking now, teasing him for the mess he’s become, even if the logical part of his mind tells him that would never be true. 

 

“Sweeney said Jacobs wants to get rid of me.” He blurts out, biting his tongue immediately after. 

 

Looking nervously to Patrice, he’s not yelling. He has never been one to raise his voice, and now is no exception. After a shock of silence he’s just muttering frantically, sounding much like a man short of time. Like he has to get every thought out of his head and won’t stop until he has. It’s a mix of French and English, French things he never translated for anyone and English things Brad taught him when he was just learning. 

 

“I’m - sorry?” Brad tries, and Patrice’s head snaps up. No, that wasn’t the right thing to say. 

 

“No, ange, it isn’t your fault,” his hand rests on Brad’s thigh, tethering them together like a lifeline. His gaze is focused, a look Brad has only ever seen on the ice. “You shouldn’t be treated like this for existing.”

 

He says  _ existing _ with such intensity that Brad almost believes it. Almost. Maybe he doesn’t deserve this for existing, but he does deserve it for the way he exists. Patrice wouldn’t understand that. He never could. 

 

They look at each other for a second or two, weak gazes which would make them burst into laughter in any other situation. Brad longs for those innocent moments, but he knows they’re never coming back. He heard what Sweeney said, clear as day. If he wants to stay with the team, retire a Bruin, he’s going to have to clean up his act. Running beyond stopping his racking up of penalties, of instigating fights, it expands to removing the expectations of doing those things altogether. Maybe it’s cruel, too hard on himself, but he doesn’t know if he’d mean anything to the rest of the guys without that persona. He’d sacrifice his life to save his career. That’s not a hard decision. 

 

“What else did he say to you?” Patrice breaks the quiet, silences the thoughts running rampant through Brad’s mind. The way he speaks is still so intense, both terrifying and comforting. 

 

Brad figures he should tell him of the important parts of the situation, tell him Jacobs’ shitty reasoning for wanting to let him go. Instead, he tells him what’s on his mind, what’s been taking up his mind since the phone call went dead. “He called me son. Told me to behave myself.”

 

“I’d kill him, you know,” Bergy says, conversationally. There’s a snarl on his face Brad is positive he’s never seen before. “If you wanted.”

 

There’re a million responses Brad could give to that statement. Instead, he settles on “I know.” 

 

It’s true, it’s no exaggeration. The two of them, they’d do anything for each other. Patrice, he’s already had the career some guys dream of. In a sense, he doesn’t care. His head’s not fucked up like some other players at this point, which is a crude way to put it, but the truth. He’s plenty clever enough to get away with murdering their team’s owner in cold blood. But Brad saw that sneer on his face, he’s fucked up enough to find some enjoyment in doing it. The equally fucked up part of Brad’s mind finds a great sort of enjoyment at the thought. 

 

“Not yet, though,” Patrice tells him. His smile is a little more lighthearted now. Brad doesn’t know. Despite himself, the idea of murder sounds ideal at this point. 

 

As ever, Patrice drags him back to reality. Brad is still as he reaches forward, grabs his hand in his and pulls him forward. It’s a little uncomfortable, knees pressed to his chest as Patrice holds them together. There’s a nagging thought at the back of his mind, _ this won’t last _ . But with strong arms around him, he can feel the broken pieces slowly fitting together again. 

 

“You deserve this,” are the words whispered against his hair. “You deserve everything you have, Brad.” 

  
He might not believe it yet, but for now, the fact that  _ someone _ believes it is enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to alex for being equally pissed off about the article with me. apologies to fi, I don't think this was the lickgate fic you had in mind
> 
> as always, tumblr is mellerbees. come yell with me there.


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